


Up Yours, Die

by sharkie



Series: The Broad Walls [15]
Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Trapped In Elevator, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-10 23:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11702415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: Episode 5 hits a literal snag.





	Up Yours, Die

“This is about finding the boy,” Liz insists.

“Is it, Liz? Or is it about you?” Finn shoves his face close enough to slap or kiss, voice dipping from coy to venomous; she scoffs and turns her head away, but she can't ignore the fire in his eyes at the corner of her vision, nor the tingle of interest that semi-involuntarily courses through her body. “One last look-at-me piece of think-tank skullfuck- _Jesus!”_

Lights blink out as the lift lurches. With a sharp gasp, Liz stumbles forward - and lands in Finn's (strong, no, fuck) arms, his own body pressed against the wall. Her kneecap is dismayingly near his groin. Double fuck. He hastily releases her as the lift steadies. The only reasonable course of action is to resume glaring at each other.

Seconds later, the lights flicker on. The lift stays stuck.

“What the fuck?!” Liz yelps as Finn lunges in her direction. She's well-aware that he's sneaky, but is he _really_ seizing the opportunity for murder? “Do you hold me personally accountable for every piece of machinery in Scotland Yard except yourself?”

“I know asking for help is an exceptionally foreign concept to you,” he hisses, “but I need to press the emergency call button.”

She stands her ground and stares into his eyes for a heartbeat, chewing her bottom lip. Then she rushes to press the button before he does. 

Curse and threaten their phones as they might, neither of them can get signals. There’s nothing better to do other than slouch in their respective corners and exchange dark glances and increasingly halfhearted barbs once they've dealt with the obligatory lift/elevator argument.

“This is your fault,” Finn accuses. 

Liz recoils, almost knocking her head against the mirrored wall. “ _My_ fault?”

“You exceeded load capacity with the weight of your ego.”

She makes a show of checking her watch. “That took you five minutes to spew. You’ve lost your edge.”

He pops a piece of gum into his mouth, scowling. “I was just waiting.”

“Sure you were.”

* * *

“I’ve seen this happen before,” Liz says. “On TV.” Now she’s sitting slumped in her corner, arms folded in unconscious defense. Across her, Finn draws his knees further up to his chest so his kneecaps nearly bump his chin, trying to avoid touching the air that touches her air. “Two mortal enemies, trapped alone in an elevator..."

“Shut the fuck up,” he responds.

“It was an episode of _Babylon 5_.” Her ankles kick from side to side. “Nothing was resolved and they hated each other even more by the time they got out.”

An array of emotions flash on his face as he puts two and two together at an admittedly admirable speed. “Liz...are you one of those people who thinks _Babylon 5_ is smarter than Star Wars?”

“Finn, there are rocks smarter than Star Wars.”

“Star Wars is smarter than you.”

“So you’re not denying that it’s stupid.”

His indignation falters. “It’s...not meant to be that complicated.”

“Well - ” she exhales heavily, “- neither am I.”

Liz absentmindedly watches Finn’s eyes follow the continuous motion of her heels. Then they both realise what they’re doing and redirect their gazes elsewhere at the same time.

He coughs and asks, “So, I'm your mortal enemy, am I?”

She grants him a brief dubious side-eye. “I sincerely hope you're not going to live forever.”

Soon Liz starts to panic. Casually. As in, instead of a tsunami, it’s like she’s drinking bottled mineral panic sourced from the finest of hysteric alps. She isn't claustrophobic. Optimistic and brilliant as she is on this particular day, she isn’t terribly worried that the lights will go out again and the cables will snap and she'll plummet to her doom in a shitty Scotland Yard lift, with _Finn_ as the last face she sees before death. Really.

But the search for Theo Metaxas is probably ongoing. Since Mia is accompanying the family, Sharon is on her own in the public eye. Sharon. Dry-as-decent-paint, blunt, frequently awkward Sharon, who was reluctant about running for Commissioner just hours ago and fairly easily prodded into action. Could she be prodded back out of it? Where is Inglis, if Finn is here?

Liz’s heart pounds like it's trying to escape her chest. Her breaths quicken.

“Calm down,” Finn reproaches.

She pretends not to hear. Maybe lifts are more user-friendly than fridges. She hits the centre of the doors with her elbow once, twice, then jabs the 'open' button and several random floor numbers for good measure.

“Deep breaths,” he instructs, glowering.

Her panic immediately subsides in a fresh wave of irritation. Thank God there’s a whole ocean of _that_.

* * *

Half an hour later, they’ve lapsed into a semi-hostile silence occasionally punctuated by disgruntled noises, to remind each other of their own existence in an instinctive attempt to start another fight. The lift is growing stuffy.

Then, they share a moment similar to the prescient seconds before a car crash: Finn undoes the button beneath his already-open collar. Too stunned by the sight to think harder, Liz begins to unbutton the top of her own shirt.

He softly wheezes a noise like a cartoon duck being strangled.

“Is this uncomfortable for you?” she asks, half-ironic.

“I - no.” Finn looks away, clears his throat and practically chokes out, “Go ahead.”

Her hands freeze mid-air, stuffiness forgotten in the new bolt of heat that insinuates itself in her body. Leering and snide comments, she’d expected. (And, dare she admit it, anticipated without much revulsion.) Instead he's _flustered_.

“ _Ohhhhh_.” Liz draws the sound out like she’s reached a profound realisaton that's also made her orgasm a little.

“What?” he snaps, more startled than irritated.

“It all makes sense now. The spying, the borderline degrading comments, the speculating on my romantic situation, the threats.” She catches his eye. Grins. “You can't stop thinking about me and you’re going out of your mind. You _like_ me.”

His scoff skirts dangerously close to a nervous laugh. “Don’t be juvenile.”

“I bet you dream about me in every possible way,” she crows. “I bet my Facebook profile is your Internet Explorer homepage. I bet you practice writing ‘Mr. Liz Garvey’ in the margins of our press statements and doodle tuxedo designs for our fantasy wedding, and that’s the reason why you're hellbent on controlling everything in the office.”

A quarter of Finn’s otherwise perfectly-restrained face twitches in what may be annoyance and what may be suppressed desperation. “I...don't have Internet Explorer.”

“You can't _not_ have Internet Explorer.”

“I don't _use_ it. Liz, if I was attracted to you, I wouldn’t have lied about having a wife, would I?” Hmm. He’d almost have her fooled, if not for how he rakes a hand through his hair like he wants to push the roots into his brain to kill himself instantly, plus the fact that the end of his nominal rhetorical question lilts as if it's a genuine one.

“You said I’m attractive,” she reminds him, tilting her head to the side in faux wonder.

“Would you like me to rescind that?”

“Only if you replace it with a stronger word.”

 _What the fuck_. But she holds her chin high, eyes bright, daring him.

“Like ‘fucking irritating’?” he suggests scathingly.

“That’s two words, Finn. You must suck at Scrabble. And you know that’s not what I meant.”

He clamps his lips shut and turns away. It isn’t fun anymore, so she drops it.

Liz's stomach growls. Loudly. Rolling his eyes, Finn digs an unopened piece of gum out of his pocket and slides it across the floor. She grabs it between wary glances, unwraps it and pops it into her mouth; after several chews she spits it back into the foil with exaggerated disgust. _Nicotine._

“It must be gross inside your mouth,” she groans.

Finn casts her a withering glare, but doesn't rise to it. “I'm starting to question if this was truly an accident,” he says. “Seems awfully convenient for both Inglis' and Sharon's advisers to get stuck together while waging a bitter campaign war.”

Privately, she does wonder if Charles and Sharon have struck an agreement and left them to rot in a lift. “Please, oh paranoid android, I'm sure they're coming for us.”

“His name is _Marvin,_ and he deserves your respect.”

It takes a while for Liz's lips to form an O as she remembers  _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_. 

“No,” she says, nodding sagely, “Marvin's a Martian, and he doesn't. I mean, he's _the_ iconic Martian, but -”

“Jesus _Christ.”_ Finn buries his face in his hands and emits a wordless frustrated sound. “Every time, every single fucking time I think I've reached the highest possible peak of despising you, the heavens part and reveal a staircase.”

“Yeah?” Liz's nods pick up speed. “That's funny, because every time I think you've sunk as low as you could possibly go, the ground opens and reveals an escalator. No, a walkalator. Because you're lazy. A fast walkalator. Going _down_. And there are no up walkalators or escalators or staircases or _fucking functional elevators._ ”

“Lift!” he shouts, quaking with rage.

“Elevator!” she shouts back, shaking a fist.

They relapse into angry silence.

Finn unconvincingly flicks imaginary lint off his shoulder. “I hope we aren't stuck between floors. At least if the worst comes to worst, we could use your thick head as a battering ram.”

“Or your dick.”

Eyes wide, he flattens himself against the wall; he manages to retain an otherwise smug expression. “I'm flattered you think it's large enough. Spend a lot of time dwelling on it?”

“I was under the impression that size doesn't matter -” Liz lolls over the words like she's already tasting him, “- just hardness.”

Finn gulps. Discreet and quiet. Still noticeable.

“Anyway,” he says, a hint of nervous babbling discernible beneath the smarmy exterior, “Marvin is far from the only iconic Martian, even to an American plebeian. What about the Manhunter?”

She can't resist. “Isn't that a Hall & Oates song?”

“That's _'Maneater.'”_ He mashes his face into his kneecaps. “I want to _die.”_

“Don't forget: up yours, first.”

“Fuck you.”

“I guess that's one way to do it.”

The silence is significantly more awkward this round.

“If Charles was appointed Commissioner, what would he do about these lifts?” Liz asks wearily, letting her head thud against the wall.

"Replace the mirrors with ads, probably.” Finn wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of one hand; she licks her chapped lips, and oh God, if she gets out of here alive tonight she'll need to examine to what extent those actions are linked. “What about Sharon?”

Actually…“I don’t know,” Liz admits.

“Debate herself about the relativism of up and down, obviously.” Finn cocks his head, his most familiar smirk making a not-entirely-unwelcome reappearance. “But I figured you wouldn't know that, seeing as you barely know her.”

A _pssh_ whooshes past her lips. “Like you do.”

“I know enough to guess why she’s running in the first place.” He rises under the pretense of stretching, slouches against the wall like a snake that's conned God into regaining legs. “What was your pitch, Liz? ‘Charles is a Black man, but you’re a white woman, let’s see how this societally marginalised pageant goes’?”

She scrambles onto her feet as well. “Finn, unless I’m sorely mistaken, you’re not a Black man.”

“What is Sharon to you besides an Ikea footstool to step on so you can feel grown-up while you snog your own reflection?”

“You _wish_ you could snog my reflection!”

“Oh - ” Finn holds up his hands in mock surrender, “- big surprise, the whiz kid goes for nonsensical schoolyard taunts.”

“Better than a washed-up middle-aged man putting effort into professionally smearing children.”

“Liz, _shut_ _up_.”

“And what happens if I don't? Will you beat your head against the wall until you’re unconscious? Clap your hands over your ears and sing? Strangle yourself with your belt?” Liz laughs harshly. “Because I'd love to see any or all of that.”

There's a pause for mutual contemplation.

“I could kiss you,” Finn suggests tentatively.

“You could?” Liz questions. He nods, looking self-assured. “With the gum in your mouth?”

He retrieves the discarded foil from his pocket and spits into it. 

“I could kiss you,” he repeats. 

This must be what it's like to be tied to a railroad track and hearing the train approach. “But - since we're speaking hypothetically here - I could keep talking right after.”

“No, you couldn't.”

He's stepping closer. She must be suffering from severe oxygen deprivation, because all she can counter with are a few steps of her own and, “Yes, I could.”

“No.”

Oh, for fuck's sake. 

She recalls her flash of fear when the lift stopped. “Or you could attack me.”

“No,” he says, slowly, “in that case you'd actually fight.”

“I would either way. My tongue could beat up your tongue.”

_What. The fuck._

_This place is burning to the ground,_ she'd told Sharon. _And Finn is burning extinguishers_. Yet here Liz is, fanning a spark on impulse - in an especially enclosed space, at that. She has buckets of water to save Scotland Yard. (Not her bottled panic water, that's a separate analogy.) Meanwhile, the main thing smouldering about Finn is his expression, and she has no idea how to douse that. That is, no idea she'd confess. Her cheeks warm along with the tightening of her throat, so she has to inspect this fucking multi-layered hazard further. 

At some point they've drifted into roughly the same position as when she'd cornered him, but the darkness of his eyes is deeper, and she can't stop inching forward. She opens her mouth intending to speak, but whatever words waited on her tongue evaporate as his own tongue darts out. It looks tastier than the nicotine gum. Fuck. While she's been watching him, his gaze has lowered - eyes slitted - and she moves even closer, ostensibly to examine him better...but winds up distracted by his mouth again.

“Liz,” he says, rougher than she's ever heard yet curiously soft. “What are you doing?”

For once, her brain is a total blank. She raises a hand without knowing why. It lands on his cheek - which is as heated as hers, by the feel of it. He doesn't recoil or slap it off - that's cause for in-depth investigation, right? He apparently deems her investigation worth investigating and his inquisitive stare is intense, so  _serious_ , she briefly laughs in a weak attempt at levity and stops just as quickly when his jaw tenses and he leans in and she leans in and - 

_Ding!_

The lift doors open. They jump apart, Liz self-consciously smoothing her hair, Finn rubbing the back of his neck. The daylight of Scotland Yard's hallways is a welcome reprieve from fluorescent-lit confinement, but it's a dull sight compared to his eyes.

* * *

A minute later, they've contacted their respective candidates to plan their next move and assure them that they haven't died. (At least, they assume it's assurance.) Finn lowers his phone seconds after Liz has hung up...and catches her staring. To cover, she whips out her phone again. He fucking _whistles,_ sticks his hands in his pockets and regards her with raised eyebrows. 

“Well, go on.” She flaps at the space between them as if she's belatedly trying to put out what's been ignited between them. “You wouldn't want to miss your awkward dinner date with the private sector before you put out in a broom closet.”

“I should've asked you for tips.”

“You could've practiced.”

They gape at each other under the guise of disgust, too intently to be convincing. 

Finn recovers first: “And you would've been an eager participant?”

“I'm a ruthless instructor,” she declares, “and you would've cried harder than mother dearest at your imaginary wedding.”

“As the humans say: up yours, die,” he quotes airily, and begins to leave.  

Liz huffs, equal-parts livid and amused. She frowns when he turns back around.  

“And good luck with the search,” he adds. Pauses. His eyes are fireless. “That was my original exiting line.”

Something plummets after all. 


End file.
